When Anya goes down, when blood pours out of the hole in her stomach, when Clarke falls to her knees besides the grounder woman, her first thought is please, not now.
Not now. Not when they'd come so far, when everything was about to fall into place. The blonde could still feel Anya's hand over hers, could still feel the hope blossoming in her chest at the possibility of a truce.
Not now. Why did it have to be now? Why not weeks ago, why not when blood was pouring from Clarke's eyes and nose, when Raven was risking her life to place a bomb, when Jasper was being impaled with a spear? Hell, why not mere hours ago, when Anya was holding her to the ground with a knife against Clarke's skin?
Please, not now.
Clarke's second thought, flying into her mind and mingling with her first, is the fact that she never even knew Anya. She knew a warrior, a leader, an enemy. She knew a cold, brave woman that wouldn't hesitate to kill Clarke's people. And now, just when Clarke had finally seen a glimpse of Anya, not just an enemy, everything was being ripped away.
What was Anya like in times of peace? Did she ever laugh, joke, partake in silly games? Clarke will never know, never find out. Not now.
Not now. Please, not now. Her hands are coated crimson red, and Anya's gasping in pain and the grounder tongue. Any chance of a truce is slipping through Clarke's fingers with the dying woman's blood.
A sudden blaze of pain makes its way through Clarke's body—she's been shot as well—and Anya keeps bleeding under her fingers. Things had been going so well. Clarke's bleeding too now, and rough hands are pulling her up, and Anya is lying dead on the ground, and all she can think is why is everything going wrong now?
Why now, when everything had been going so right?
Please, not now.